Wasilij chewed his nails as he gazed out the open window, paranoia setting in. The sun was beginning to rise, and the grey of the false dawn meant that the Gestapo would likely be checking to make sure everyone was either asleep for curfew, or had their permission papers on them. Wasilij fingered the gold Star of David hung around his neck, still watching and still chewing, for anyone with a bright red badge on their arm. He was always so fearful that they had discovered him, that theywere going to barge into his door any minute, and whisk him away to the awful ghetto to the south of the city. His lip quivered as he bit through skin, the irony taste of blood intruding his mouth.
Quickly, he spat it out and wiped his lips, returning to his vigil and feeling oh-so-very tired. He couldn't go to sleep, not yet. They were still out there, watching. Waiting...
Pressing his forehead deeper into his palm, Peter continued to file the seemingly endless supply of paperwork on his desk. Information that, although vital to his job, that was utterly boring to sift through and decide which one's he should keep or which one's he should crumble into a ball and throw at the nearest trashcan, or if the opportunity presented itself, throw it at the back of his co-worker Erdmann's head whenever he tried to take another one of his ten minute naps. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, Peter looked down at the vastly diminished pile of paperwork on his desk.
"It can wait, it can wait. I need to stretch my legs anyway." Peter mumbled to himself, standing up from his desk and cracking his back. Leaving his Gestapo badge on his desk, Peter made sure that he had his pistol secured in the holster underneath his trench-coat and strapped his knife to his ankle before walking out the back-door of City Hall. Waving goodbye to the posted sentries outside, Peter walked to the right and onto the early morning streets of Warsaw.
Humming a quiet tune to himself, Peter looked around the city. You could tell it once was a beautiful city, before the war came and took it away. Now, it had an air of a pretty woman who had been beaten by it's abusive husband. Still standing tall, but, with a few extra bruises and blemishes. It still had a beautiful face underneath those bruises, and perhaps one day those bruises would fade, but, to the outside it was an ugly mess. Lighting a cigarette, Peter contiuned his aimless walk about the city. His instincts on the beat still haven't faded, as he casually scanned the nearly empty streets (aside from a few Wehrmacht patrols and the random civilian or two rushing home) looking for something. Perhaps a pulse, perhaps just a sign of life. A breath from the comatose city.
Passing by the theater, Peter wondered if they would play any good films. He longed to see a decent film that didn't involve simply praising Hitler and the Nazi Party. Although, Peter would admit, sometimes they were nice. But a comedy seemed to be in order for this time and age. Perhaps Peter could use his position as a Gestapo agent to force the management to play a comedy. Taking another drag from his cigarette, Peter shook his head at the thought of the idea. Although he certainly could abuse his position, it was against what he stood for. He was here simply to do his job, whatever that may entail.
Flicking his now-finished cigarette to the ground, Peter looked up to see the sign of the local cafe above him. Pressing his face to the window, he saw only a few people inside. Shrugging nonchalantly, Peter quietly entered the cafe and took a seat in a back corner of the room so he could face everybody inside while having his back exposed to the wall. Picking up a menu off the table, Peter scrolled through the list of options. He was slowly learning the Polish language, and he was now starting to able to understand what the menu actually said. Deciding on a staple diet of eggs, bacon and coffee; Peter waved the waitress over.
"What can I get you, sir?" The Polish waitress asked, predictably, in Polish.
"Just some easy-over eggs, bacon and a cup of coffee; please. Black, if that's possible."Peter responded back in Polish, surprised how quickly he accent was beginning to fade. He almost sounded Polish!
"It'll be out soon sir." The waitress responded, disappearing back into the kitchen. Looking out the nearby window, Peter saw the sun slowly rise above the horizon. A start to another long day.
The bar seemed just as jovial and unaffected by the outside world as usual; it was the one safe place left for Alexandre. As he strode into 'The Drunken Soldier', he looked around. The Italian brothers Joe and Marc were sitting at their usual table, soaking it in. Marya, a fellow Russian, tended the bar as always. As Alex arrived, he put his elbow on the stretch of oak; he leaned in. "Greetings, comrade," he said jokingly. "I seem to have forgotten the few rubles I still possess at Ulfengard's place; would you mind allowing a drink for a poor traveler?" Marya laughed; she walked over to the tap. "Anything for you, Alex. You know this." The tall man nodded, a smile lighting his face; he walked over to the table he usually resided at. A young woman, appearing to be in her twenties, occupied his favorite seat. Not minding, he sat next to the girl. "Why is someone as beautiful as you alone? I'm sure anyone would love to accompany you; people usually do, when it comes to the beautiful." The girl smiled; it quickly faded. Alex was an expert at reading body language; he could tell something troubled the woman. "What ails you, m'lady?" he said, half-joking. She smiled again, as she began to speak. "Alas, Ser, I seem to have lost my favorite dress. It is unbeknownst to me who hath taken it; would one so kind and brave as yourself retrieve it?" She laughed quietly; she was obviously mocking him. "Of course, fair maiden, but I cannot quest for one I do not know. What is thy name?" To this, the woman put down the newspaper she clutched and laughed harder. "Why, 'tis Claudia, good ser." Smiling, Alex put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "I do not believe you frequent this bar; correct me if I'm wrong. I am Ser Alexandre, thou Knight of Moscow." The girl seemed to lose any attraction; she got up. "Filthy Russian," she said. Alex received this reaction sometimes; some people were just disgusting like that. He purposely his his accent whenever he talked to newcomers as to keep himself off the radar; sometimes he trusted people too much and revealed himself. The door opened as the woman stepped out. Marya looked at Alex, a stern look on her face; she didn't keep it up long. A smile cracked the mask. Then, out of the blue, a shout rang out. "Russian! Russian inside the bar!" Cursing, Alex fingered the knife he kept on him at all times as a man burst in. This was bad.
It only took a couple words to get the man to put the gun down; Alex tried not to be too charming, but certain situations required it. "Now, I think we can all forgive and forget, no? Let's just pretend nothing happened here." The man nodded quickly; he was under what Alex fancied his 'spell.' He left the bar without picking up the Luger pistol on the ground. Alex held a disgust for firearms, despite being excellent with them; multiple battles from his single year in the Red Army ensured that. Marya strode to the man. "Alex, you know I like you, but I can't have this bar be a center of attention. I'm lucky enough they don't recognize me for what I am; you coughing up all your personal info to random women all the time does not keep you hidden. Something like this happens again, and I hate to say it, but I'll have to ask you to permanently leave." Alex nodded grimly. The damned Germans ruined everything.
After a good mile's walk, he ended up at 'Ulfengard's Inn,' his permanent resting place. Kharkliyov, the manager, had been smooth-talked into allowing Alex permanent residence free of charge. As he ascended the stairs, a chill went up Alex's back from an unknown source. Dismissing it as adrenaline from the night's turn of events, he opened the door to his room. An aroma wafted through the well-kept apartment of sorts; it was undoubtedly Sofya's scent. The kind-hearted young woman had taken an affinity to him, as most did, and decided she'd upkeep the room for him; once again, free of charge. Well, mostly. But that's a story for another time. Alex quickly shed the worn aviator's jacket about his shoulders and climbed into the bed, asleep faster than a bullet.